


on you on me on you

by mokuyoubi



Series: Back and Forth [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barebacking, Bodily Fluids, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur’s dream leaves him with a lot of unspent energy, but Eames is more than happy to help him work it out.  Established relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on you on me on you

One of the benefits of flying first class means skipping to the head of the line at Immigration. Arthur watches, chest tight with panicked anticipation as Dom goes before him. He hands his passport over to the officer, and the adrenaline rush from Arthur’s dream lingers, makes his muscles draw tight, ready to fight. He has to remind himself that the stakes are different here, and fighting for Dom will only lead to him being arrested, too.

But the Immigration officer stamps Dom’s passport and waves Arthur forward, and all the wild, strained energy roiling under Arthur’s skin rails for release. It turns his stomach, makes his vision strange around the edges. He doesn’t let it manifest physically, keeping perfectly still, maintaining a polished exterior. 

Fischer waits at the baggage carousel, his expression distant and contemplative. Though he’d doubted its possibility, Arthur is now certain that the Inception has taken. For it to work, Fischer can’t suspect anything; they can’t be seen by him together, outside of the dream. Any hint of suspicion on his part could ruin all their work. 

Cobb stands at the far end of the carousel where the luggage will first appear, all but bouncing in his impatience. Ariadne settles on the opposite side, legs tucked up on her seat, earbuds tucked into her ears, nose stuck in a book. Yusuf and Saito have yet to come through Immigration. There is nothing to do but wait patiently, and the mere _thought_ causes Arthur to grind his teeth. 

From the corner of his eye, Arthur spots Eames lounging casually against a pillar, playing with his phone. They aren’t supposed to be seen together, and yet. Arthur’s dream on the second level hadn’t even lasted very long, from a dreamer’s perspective and yet it seems so long since he’s touched Eames. Paris seems decades ago. 

Suddenly, all the chaotic, directionless energy coursing through Arthur’s veins finds a purpose. He spares Eames only the briefest of looks before turning down the little access hallway to the bathrooms. Experience and innate knowledge tell him Eames will follow. 

Arthur goes into the last stall and shrugs out of his suit jacket, hanging it on the peg before loosening his tie. The seconds tick by and he waits, one foot braced against the wall. It’s quiet here, the roar of activity distant and muted. Several of the lights have gone out in the ceiling, suggesting little traffic, but it’s relatively clean, and really Arthur couldn’t care less at this point. 

The door swings open, letting in a brief rush of noise. Eames walks in a purposefully slow, measured gate. Arthur counts each step, feels the click reverberate through him. He’ll pay Eames back for it later, but right now he doesn’t have the patience for games. 

The footsteps come to a stop and Arthur opens the door to see Eames with his fist raised, poised to knock. Arthur grabs him by the collar and hauls him into the stall, shoving him up against the wall and kicking the door closed as an after thought. 

Eames’ eyes sparkle with mirth. He parts his lips, wetting them as if planning to speak, and Arthur doesn’t want to talk right now. He closes the last distance between them, rolling all his weight into Eames, hip to shoulder. Their lips meet in a violent crush. 

Arthur has always appreciated the way their bodies slot together. The slight height advantage he has on Eames allows him to get a leg between Eames’ and fit their hips just right. Arthur rocks down on Eames’ thigh and Eames’ arches back against him, letting out a harsh breath through his nose. His hands scrabble at Arthur’s vest, but Arthur catches him at the wrists and forces his hands back against the wall. Eames makes a faint sound of disappointment and arousal, swallowed up by Arthur’s tongue. They don’t have time for undressing and exploration right now. 

“Do you have anything?” Arthur parts from him to ask. 

“Oh yes,” Eames drawls, but he’s breathless and his lips are swollen. “Because I routinely break airport safety guidelines in order to smuggle lube onto planes.” 

Arthur just gives him a look, because really, it wouldn’t surprise him in the least. Eames smirks back, all smug cockiness. “How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t be able to wait until we got back to the hotel?” 

Arthur purses his lips, but refuses to comment. Instead, he drops to his knees and tugs at Eames’ belt buckle, yanks down the zipper of his slacks. Eames’ hands hurry to help, shoving his slacks and boxers down to mid-thigh. 

Usually, Arthur likes to tease—it’s his physical response to all of Eames’ verbal taunts, and no doubt a large part of the reason Eames continues to push his buttons. Arthur likes the way Eames responds to his touch, likes to make him writhe and curse and bury his hands in Arthur’s hair. It isn’t about the power, though it might seem like it from outside their relationship. It’s really the opposite, because Arthur gives Eames exactly what they both want. 

Right now, though, Arthur wraps his fist around the base of Eames’ cock and strokes him to full hardness, then dips his head to close his lips around the head. He knows how to make it last, and he knows how to end it in a hurry, and now he puts to use all the tricks and secrets he’s learned in his explorations of Eames’ body to make him come as quickly as he can. His tongue traces the sensitive ridge just under the head and he sucks, gently at first but with increasing pressure, while his fist works the rest of Eames’ cock. 

Eames groans low in chest. His fingers skate over Arthur’s shoulder and up his neck to cup his jaw. Arthur takes him deeper, lets Eames guide him where he wants him with a delicate touch, and it was part of why Arthur had fallen for him, that Eames could be so tender even in moments such as this. Arthur hums his appreciation and Eames’ hips buck at the sensation. He lets out a soft _fuck_ , and pets Arthur’s hair in apology. 

And it isn’t just his touch getting Eames off, Arthur knows, and he gets on his knees for Eames quite often enough. It’s Arthur in one of his fancy suits that Eames loves to wrinkle and stain, and which Arthur usually guards fiercely, now kneeling on the floor of a public restroom for Eames. Arthur, fully dressed with drool just starting to leak from the corner of his mouth. Eames catches it with his thumb and smears it up Arthur’s cheek, leaving a sticky trail towards his ear. Arthur closes his eyes and goes all the way down, and Eames chokes on a sound. 

It doesn’t take long, but Arthur feels every second ticking by under his skin, throbbing in his dick. Eames has to feel the desperation in his touch, and that probably helps, too. His thigh tenses under Arthur’s hand and he pushes at Arthur’s cheek with two fingertips. Arthur strokes him through it as Eames pulses hot and bitter on his tongue. Then he sits back on his heels and spits delicately into his palm, saliva and come swirling together against his skin. Eames watches with lazy eyes, no doubt filing the image away to revisit later. 

“Turn around,” Arthur says, voice rough from use. 

Eames does so without his usual teasing, hands planted on the wall in front of him and hips tilted back. There is something very gratifying about Eames submitting to him, no matter how brief the duration. 

Arthur slicks two fingers through the mess, scooping up as much as he can before pressing them to Eames’ opening. Eames tenses, but pushes back against Arthur’s touch. Arthur doesn’t have the time or patience to be gentle. He works his fingers in deep, spreading Eames’ own come inside him, curls his fingers in a beckoning gesture that makes Eames muffle a sound by biting down on his arm. 

“Do it,” Eames grits out, and Arthur doesn’t ask if he’s sure. He allows himself a second to enjoy the aesthetic of Eames’ tensed muscles and sharply curved spine before rising and slipping his fingers free. 

Somewhere in the course of their relationship, Arthur has become adept at opening his slacks one-handed, and he’s not really sure what that says about the two of them. He takes himself in hand, smearing come and spit with a few strokes. Then he steps forward, the head of his cock pressing bluntly against Eames’ ass. Eames’ hips are damp under Arthur’s touch, making his fingers slip; he digs his nails in and pulls Eames back as he presses forward. 

_This. This is what he’s needed since waking. Eames’ heat sears, and the scent of sex and sweat is sharp enough that Arthur can taste it on his tongue. Arthur’s dreams are never so vivid. It’s just another assurance that this is all real, far more visceral than watching the tumble of a die._

All the unspent energy rushing just under the surface of Arthur’s skin manifests in rough, punishing thrusts. He has none of his normal finesse, and Eames is going to be walking with a hitch after this, is going to wear bruises on his hips for weeks, the knowledge of which only makes Arthur fuck him harder and deeper. 

Eames makes a strangled noise and Arthur answers with a sharp bite on his neck, just above his collar. The skin shines wet, red circled in white indentations, and later Arthur’s going to suck on it ‘til it’s purple and black, and Eames whines in mingled pleasure and pain. Arthur sets his teeth to skin again, gently this time, just scraping and Eames jerks and tightens around Arthur’s cock. 

Arthur wants to groan, but he doesn’t share Eames’ abandon in public. His thrusts turn erratic and Eames reaches behind himself to squeeze Arthur’s hip, to urge him closer, and he pants out _yes_ and _Arthur_ and _come on_. And Arthur does, mouth dropped open on a silent cry, hips jerking entirely without his permission as he spends himself in Eames’ tight heat. 

Outside, down the hall, there is an announcement being made on the intercom system. They’ve been gone far too long, and Arthur can only hope that Dom is too distracted with the promise of seeing his children to notice the absence of two of his team members. 

Arthur eases free from Eames’ body, cringing in sympathy when Eames hisses. He lays a kiss against the teeth marks on the back of Eames neck, which is as close as he’ll come to saying sorry at this juncture. Mostly because Eames doesn’t mind. 

Arthur reaches behind him and grabs a wad of toilet paper to clean himself off with, dropping it in the toilet bowl and doing up his slacks and belt, smoothing the wrinkles. Eames looks over his shoulder at him with blatant amusement, and when he reaches for the paper dispenser, Arthur puts a hand over his, pushing it back down to his side. 

“Leave it,” he says, and likes the way Eames’ eyes flare with promise of all the things he’s going to do to Arthur when they reach the hotel. Arthur presses another, more lingering kiss to the bruise, satisfied that Eames will do as he asks. 

His skin feels lighter, less like a prison and more like home, and the sick, hyper-awareness has been replaced with lazy satisfaction. Arthur grins to himself as steps out of the stall, snagging his jacket on the way and straightening his hair as he passes the mirror.


End file.
